


curious side-effects of ungodly coffee drinks

by friends_call_me_wobbly_hands



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (not the main pairing. that stays fine), Coffeeshop AU, Drama & Romance, Edgepuff, Friends to Lovers, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, Jokes At Fanon, M/M, Mafia AU, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Past Character Death, Shooting Guns, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Undertale Papyrus/Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, and also there is plot so yeah, edge/creampuff, honestly this is just me throwing all of my favorite stuff in, if i have to create content on my rarepair to see content on my rarepair, no it is not deltarune, then by god i will do what i have to, yes there is both
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27417031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands/pseuds/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands
Summary: Edge is a grumpy barista. Puff is a strange client. Both try to leave their lives behind the doorstep of the coffee shop.It starts with a ridiculous monstrosity (that used to be a venti vanilla latte), flows into an over-the-counter friendship, and then explodes into their faces with everything they wanted to keep hidden for good.
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 36





	1. what kind of villain would even order this monstrosity

**Author's Note:**

> I have this more or less plotted through, so it will not be a long tale, and I hope I will eventually finish it. :')

Quiet day.

Edge wipes the imaginary crumbs off the counter for the tenth time. If he put any more effort into wiping it, the wood would start eroding. As of now, though, it is merely clean enough to reflect his bored expression and dimmed eyelights. He puts away the rug and stretches his neck just a little bit - simply to stare out of the window and not, by any means, to look out for any potential customers. Of course.

It is a cool October day, perfect for a cup of coffee. It stays as quiet outside as it is inside: grey skies, windless streets, yellow leaves that crunch underfoot so satisfyingly. They stay silent for now, though. No one approaches the shop. A few parents pass by with strollers, and a familiar monster girl runs by with her dog, both panting, but none of them pay the door another glance. Edge sinks back down with a deflected sigh.

“Black Edge” is not a tourist attraction by a long shot, but it has its regulars. Three times a day it is flooded by the tide of workers from the equally small local businesses. A coffee shop does not bring much revenue in such a spot, sure, but there’s also no need to compete with the bigger franchises going at each other's throats for territory and clients. Besides, it’s not so bad to serve the same people every day. Everyone knows everyone. No conflicts happen. At most there’s a heated little jab at a klutz spilling their coffee on someone else, and then it settles into a disgruntled acceptance again.

But - because there is always a ‘but’ - it means that the “Black Edge” relies only on those regulars and not on new clients randomly wandering inside; and they really do not wander much. There are few reasons to come into this tiny alley, or in this distinct in particular, if you have other options. Edge knows his coffee, but even he admits that it is not worth the journey from the city center and back.

It also means that Edge’s day is separated into three crowded rush hours with boredom in between. It is better than having no rest at all - and much, much better than having  _ no crowds -  _ but it still gets monotonous quick. 

Well, at least the monotony is also safe and familiar by now.

After the lunch break crowd slowly trickles away, there is not much to do till the evening, and Edge does not want to close shop early in case someone does decide to swing by. That means several hours of restless pacing, counter wiping, sighs, desperate looks… and, ultimately, the grumble of acceptance when the last few customers come in just before the closing time. 

Just another quiet day.

Edge decides to make use of it and takes the broom. His shop is mostly visited by monsters, sure, but monster food leaves stains and crumbles just the same. He sweeps up all the tiny traces of monster presence, looks for forgotten rubbish under the tables, dusts the fur off the chairs. He sweeps it once again, just to make sure he got everything. Then, still dissatisfied, he grabs a mop and gives the floor a thorough wash - several times, till it becomes as mirror-like as the counter.

He waits for it to dry for a few minutes. These minutes are filled with even more torturous boredom. Edge nearly vibrates with nervous energy, not knowing what else to do, until-

Ah. The floor is finally dry.

Fighting the urge to wash it again, just in case, Edge decides to wipe the tables instead. This takes him a while as well, and the wind chimes over the door ring out just as he is arranging the sugar pots and toothpick holders in perfect symmetry. The sound makes him groan. Oh, come on, he just got to the best part.

“Wait there,” he grunts, not turning his head. He grabs the rug he was using, marches behind the counter and to the storeroom, throws it into the bucket of other rugs to wash later, washes his hands (as painstakingly as everything he does), takes a clean rug, and returns to the counter - all without hurry and without acknowledging the customer.

“Black Edge” is locally famous for two things: its coffee and its owner. Edge believes that both are worth waiting for.

“What do you want?” he asks, finally looking up at his guest. The chimes did not sound again, so they must be still around - and there they are, looking at the chalk lines of the menu with interest.

The customer is a monster: another skeleton, to be precise. Edge cannot say they’ve met before. They are rather formally dressed, in a white shirt and black pants with suspenders. Their black coat is hanging near the door. Edge makes a quiet content grunt to himself. At least the guest is fitting right in among the dark colors of the shop, only lightened up by splotches of white and red.

He prefers the darker colors, himself. Just look at his own black uniform. Just look at his  _ coffee shop. _

The skeleton finally looks away from the menu and to Edge. They are smiling in a way that makes it hard to say whether it is sincere or just a quirk of their facial features. “Ah! Right. Sorry. Where are my manners! I know it is rude to leave people hanging.” Then, before Edge can wonder if it was a not-so-subtle jab at him, they continue, “Right! It is all very appetizing, but I think I will settle on… a venti vanilla latte, please!”

Edge rolls his eyelights, turning to the machine. Ah, a vanilla latte person. The points they gained in his eyes evaporate in an instant. But oh well, he did not buy milk packets in crates all for nothing. “Got it.”

“Oh, and - make it eleven shots of espresso!”

Edge freezes. For a moment, he desperately tries to think what other, more believable numbers sound like “eleven”. “Seven” does, but it is not believable either. Maybe they said “two” in a really thick accent and coughed in the middle?..

“Eleven?” he asks, turning his head to stare the other into the eyesockets and hoping for fanfares to go off. That is a good moment for a dozen monsters to jump out of his plastic potted plants and tell him that he was, like, totally pranked.

The customer’s grin does not as much as flinch. “Yes, please!”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, both unblinking, until Edge slowly turns away and goes right back to preparing the hellish mix. Questions without answers swarm in his skull. The customer is always right, of course, but this particular one would probably stand to be corrected.

Some part of Edge wonders if he should care enough to be concerned. Another part questions the sanity of everyone involved. The rest of him decides, ultimately, that it is none of his business, and if the grinning skeleton wants to enjoy their decade of insomnia in a paper cup, who is Edge to deny them their worldly pleasures.

It takes a while. It takes a very  _ long  _ while. Edge tries not to judge, but as he starts adding the shots and realizes just how  _ much  _ espresso is eleven shots of espresso, he shakes his head and judges anyway.

The skeleton watches Edge add a shot after a shot with the same upbeat expression. When Edge turns around to hand them their latte, they apparently decide to perform their finishing move.

“Oh, and - six pumps of vanilla syrup, if I may?”

At this point, Edge has stopped even trying to pretend like this situation is normal, so he simply waves to the side. “Syrups are there. Do it yourself.”

The skeleton nods, walks to the syrups, sticks their cup under the vanilla dispenser and starts pumping. They do not do it gently and daintily, no - they go all out. Each pump is deliberate. They press onto the dispenser with a steady hand. Edge can swear that he sees the level of syrup in the bottle drop with every pump.

After halving the bottle, the skeleton sips on their diabolical concoction and makes a pleased hum of King Midas before the forest he had just turned into gold. As if just remembering that Edge is still there, they smack their pocket. “Ah, right! How much is it?”

A normal latte is 20g; a venti is 35. Edge decides to round up the espresso, syrup and his own emotional damage into another 35. He’d ask for more, but he decides to drop the charges for the free spectacle. “70 gold. Up front.”

The skeleton nods. They fish out a wallet and pour out the needed amount of coins onto the countertop with one hand, while hugging their evil potion to their chest with another. They look almost blissful. The glances that they keep sneaking at the 'latte' are filled with genuine adoration: as if they have finally found their long-lost love.  


“Thanks…” They squint at his nametag. “Edge? Wowie, I did not know there was a font like that! They really go out of their way these days.”

“Not as much as people desperately trying to make small talk,” Edge parries with a slight smirk, crossing his arms.

The other skeleton blinks and snorts, looking a little taken aback but not offended. “I guess! May I sit down to enjoy my drink in silence, then, like a good, cherished client?”

Edge feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and ushers the skeleton out with a flail of his rug. “If only you intend to sit on the stairs outside. I cannot, and will not, watch you drink this bane of a drink on my premises.”

The skeleton gives Edge a long look before scrutinizing the contents of their cup. Then, slowly, without breaking eye content, they take a savoring sip. 

Edge does not let his eyesockets twitch, but he can guess that he looks enough like a martyr that the skeleton snickers and finally leaves. The chimes sing their short melody above the door as they step outside, sipping on their creation. Edge follows them with his gaze, shakes his head and sighs.

The chimes ring again.

“I will come back tomorrow!” the skeleton cheerfully announces and exits for good - with a bounce in their step and their damned drink still cradled to their chest. Their tall, lanky shadow crosses the windows, and they are gone.

Edge waits for a few moments and huffs, exhaling through his nosebone with a long quiet hiss. What a day… what a customer. 

What an  _ order.  _ Damned be he if he ever makes that abomination again. Only over his pile of dust.

He goes on pacing and cleaning, but now a little smirk glistens on his face, and sometimes he pauses for a few moments to huff again and shake his head. What a day… 

The quiet does not get to him as much anymore, that is for sure.

When the evening crowd comes, it gets livelier. It is almost like a family gathering each time. Edge never asks, but the monsters still ramble about the family, the kids and the croons at work while they wait for their orders. Then they ask him if business is going okay, and the most matronly ones give him the eye and wonder aloud when they will finally see him settle down (“kids these days, only thinking about their careers”). He makes little grunts of acknowledgement and half-answers, and they do not expect more. It’s not too bad, honestly. It is almost sweet.

Some of them notice him smirk and comment on his good mood. Edge shakes his head once more and grumbles twice as loud, and that is all there is to it. 

Then, before he knows, the crowd is gone, and the last few tired customers put on their coats and stumble back outside. Another burst of cleaning, another thorough check, and he is done for the day. 

Before closing up, Edge huffs for the last time today and lets out a tiny snort he’s been holding all this time.

Of course they will come back tomorrow, they have forgotten their coat.


	2. oh please, not again

And so they do.

It happens right after the dinner break. Just like the day before, the chimes ring, and Edge raises his eyelights to see the now familiar skeleton - currently lost in thought and considering the menu once more. They study it for a good ten minutes; Edge plays along and goes back to wiping, and a little smirk graces the corners of his sharp mouth every now and then.

Finally, the guest looks at him. Edge can swear their bony grin widens just a little. “Ah! Hello! I’m back, just like I said! As you see, I keep my promises. All of them! Even if I lose everything else. Coats, keys, and occasionally, the plot.” After a good pause and a frown, they lean towards Edge and tell him in a confidential voice, “I have no idea where I was going with this.” 

Edge covers a growing smirk with a scoff. “I’ve noticed. What do you want?”

The skeleton looks at him with an innocent expression that makes him stagger. “Well…”

“Oh for- No. Not like yesterday. I refuse.”

“I’ll pay!”

“No money will bring back my respect for myself. No. You have the whole menu to choose from, you angelless heathen. Espressos, double, triple, with cream, with syrup. Take one of these. Shred a dozen sugar packets in, for all I care.”

“But they don’t have the same kick!”

Edge reddens in the skull and splays his hands. “That is because they are  _ drinks _ , not  _ chemical sludges! _ They do not  _ have _ the properties of a caffeinated sugar bomb! They are for savouring! Enjoying the fine notes! Angel, the thing you ordered yesterday could barely be called a  _ drink _ , least of all a  _ coffee _ . I get the best beans, I select the sorts, the manufacturers, I order the machines, I make the finest hot beverages, and for what? For you to come and desecrate my work?” With a well-timed stomp, he huffs and crosses his hands. “Get one that is on the menu or get out, for all I care.”

The skeleton gives Edge a kicked puppy look, but he is relentless, so in the end they sigh and give up. “Right… One big cappuccino.”

“Something added?”

“Nothing added. Except for my tears.”

“Those are free of charge. Disperse as many as you need.” Edge chuckles to himself, feeling like he has just tamed a wild horse. He pauses. There is another forgotten customer, half-asleep over his black tea in the corner, and a mix-up of orders is possible, even if unlikely. Yesterday he might have gone easy on the rules, but not again. “What’s your name?”

“Ah - right. Papyrus.”

Edge blinks. “Huh.”

“What? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Nothing.” He turns around and goes to prepare the drink. “Go sit somewhere. Oh, and get a bun. Or a cake slice. Might as well give me more of your money while you are at it.” 

The slightly dejected Papyrus gets a creampuff bun. They take it to their corner table and start poking holes in it with their index finger, making it look more like Swiss cheese than a self-respecting pastry.

Edge sets to work. This time, he is much more careful. He measures everything to a drop, gets a fresh portion of ground coffee beans, whips up the perfect milk foam. A standard cappuccino is not the best canvas for a genius, but he still sneakily adds a few hints of spice to enhance the taste and aroma. In the end, he even goes as far as to make a little cinnamon skull on top. He never draws anything frivolous like hearts or smiling faces, but this is a special occasion. His honor is at stake. He needs to prove that he is good - that he is a professional. That his talents do not end with eleven shot lattes.

He needs to prove a point and damned if he won't do exactly that.

After a few minutes, Edge calls out, "One cappuccino for Papyrus." 

Papyrus jerks up and all but slithers back to the counter with a suffering look. They give the cup a squint, but accept it and throw several golden coins onto the counter before staggering back to their seat. Edge watches them with a certain flutter in his chest - he went all out on this coffee, and the wait for a reaction is painstaking.

Who knows, maybe he will even manage to teach them culture.

Papyrus slowly takes a sip with the face of a schoolkid taking yucky medicine. Then, after a second or two, they take another, more interested one. Then they down half of a cup in one long gulp.

Victory.

Edge slowly breathes out and crosses his arms. Is this how enlightenment feels? Is this the inner peace that so many people have sought in vain? He throws his head back and grins to himself, feeling incredibly accomplished. 

If at least one brute changes their savage ways due to his efforts, he can die a happy skeleton.

He cannot help but slowly leave the counter, sending a quick look at the half-asleep other customer and at the empty street outside. Then he walks to the table where Papyrus is savoring their coffee. He folds his hands behind his back and makes a sound analogous to clearing one’s throat; he can safely bet that he looks victorious, because Papyrus coughs into the cup and makes a face.

“Well? Is everything alright?” Edge watches Papyrus for several moments and urges again, “Are you enjoying your drink?”

Papyrus hesitates, making several grimaces in quick succession, but in the end he pitifully declares, “I am!!! I throw in the towel and the towel is my white flag. My own taste betrayed me. Alas, poor Papyrus. Now he has no choice but to settle on the premises and pray that the owner doesn’t chase him out with a filthy rug.”

Edge does not catch the snort in time, and it slips out. Papyrus immediately shoots him a hawk-like glance, and there’s something terribly smug in his distressed expression. 

Somehow that feels like that victory was just turned into a tie.

“Well,” Edge says with the most mirthless face he can muster up, “I’m glad that you finally decided to join the civilization that you’ve been left out of, for such a long time.”

“Oh, I already like it inside!” Papyrus tells him with enthusiasm. He drums his fingers on the table. “Well, that was a nice snack before the main dish.”

Something heavy sinks down Edge’s ribs. “What-”

“Can I, please,” Papyrus says with a face so cheerful that Edge wants to strangle him, “can I please get a latte, with eleven shots of espresso and six pumps of vanilla syrup?”

Edge does not say anything, but his expression says enough to give Papyrus’ eyesockets an amused tilt. He slowly turns around, goes back behind the counter, and starts on the monstrosity before he can think it over and start screaming.

He has no idea who won, or if anyone won at all, and how many points does it give anyone, but he knows well enough to try and keep his eyesockets from twitching in disgust when he brings the poison back to the counter and, slightly hesitant, calls out for Papyrus the unholy drink owner.

The other skeleton waltzes close with a blissful smile, and the desire to strangle him grows tenfold.

“Thanks! You know,” he says, sipping on the drink tantalizingly slowly, “you know, no other drink has that kick.” 

Edge takes a deep breath. “I’m sure you haven’t tried jet fuel, then.”

Papyrus chokes half-sip, and Edge feels like he got to wrench the victory flag back to his side at least for a few moments.

“N- No, I sure haven’t. Wowie! That’s a blunder. I probably should order  _ that _ next time I’m here!”

“Only,” Edge says, feeling more and more confident now that it’s not  _ him _ on the slippery slope, “if you show me your jet plane license to prove that you are legally a jet plane. At least a hot air balloon. I don’t do over the counter business with non-flying objects.”

It’s probably not the best joke in the world, but Papyrus  _ laughs _ . None of your normal polite snorting or smiles that barely reach the eyes(ockets). No, he goes all out, nearly dropping his drink and brightening the shop with loud nyehs. The forgotten customer peps up and gives the two of them a confused stare. Edge feels the corners of his own mouth tug upwards, and - well, maybe he also smiles a little.

Today’s loser is definitely not a sore loser. If only he knew who exactly lost. 

Maybe no one did.

Papyrus, sadly, has to go despite his heartfelt desires to stay - he proclaims those as dramatically as he does everything, dragging himself to the exit. Edge pinches his nosebridge. What a customer....

This time, he forgot both the coat  _ and _ the creampuff he bought.

After waiting till the end of the day, Edge stares at the tiny pastry and puts it away into the fridge. Something tells him that it’s not the last he’s seen of Papyrus, not the last at all.

He’ll come back. If only for his coat.

  
  


And so he does, and so he does, and so he does.

Edge does not stop his attempts to sway Papyrus to the light side. 

“Double Macchiato,” he proclaims, putting a glass cup on the counter: a strip of nearly black espresso at the bottom, a strip of white at the top, and the two blending together in a perfect gradient in the middle.

Or:

“Affogato,” and vanilla ice cream slowly melts under the coat of a double shot, with Frangelico liqueur giving the mix a slight hint of hazelnut.

Or: 

Mocha, with a rich chocolate taste.

Latte, with the bitterness of espresso melting into the velvet sweetness of steamed milk.

Americano. Ristretto. Flat White. Doppio. With syrup, with cardamon, cinnamon, caramel, liqueur, hot pepper. Made, remade, tried and tried again.

Papyrus tries everything Edge recommends, and he gasps and praises the drink each time, but after he’s done, Edge hears the same request: an eleven-shot latte, six pumps of syrup.

Edge starts to suspect that perhaps he’s not going to win this one.

Admittedly, Papyrus is a good customer: he always tips, never leaves a mess, makes a one-sided preppy smalltalk with Edge and compliments his skills each time. He never gets that coat, leaving it as a natural decoration by the door. It blends in almost perfectly.

He does… other things.

One time, Edge catches him toying with the sugar dispenser on the counter - idly sliding it here and there, far from its original position. The sight makes Edge’s skull itch inside. He steps closer and forcefully moves the dispenser to where it  _ must  _ be: two inches away from the mint bowl, two inches away from the counter edge. 

Papyrus smirks and moves it back. For him, it’s no big deal. It’s just a little game. A little poke and probe at the other’s nerves.

For Edge, it is strangely akin to torture.

Edge scowls and slides the dispenser to the right position once more, barely fighting the desire to keep his fingers over it so it stays there. 

Papyrus moves it back with a triumphant smile.

Edge wants to feel angry, and he does; the red-hot wave rises within him… and washes over into cold, desperate helplessness. After all, what can he do? He cannot stop Papyrus from doing what he wants, from breaking his  _ order  _ that he so carefully maintains _.  _ Asking to do so would only sound childish. He cannot explain it, even. It’s such a silly little thing, isn’t it? What kind of an adult gets upset over someone moving a sugar dispenser an inch away from the spot? He shouldn’t be so distressed by that. He should not feel one step away from disaster.

There is no point in speaking up. It's a game. It's no big deal.  


It almost hurts.

He stays there for a moment or so, speechless, with his hands hanging lifelessly down, till Papyrus gives him another playful glance - then a surprised one - then a look that could be best interpreted as ‘oh’. 

Then Papyrus slowly, carefully slides the dispenser back where it stood. Approximately, but close enough.

Edge freezes for a moment, staring at it. Then he moves it back and forth a few times to put it into the exact position it needs to be. Two inches from the bowl. Two inches from the edge.

None of them say anything, but Papyrus always puts it back into the correct spot each time after that - which is added to his Good Customer points.

(He also always demolishes the creampuffs, which he finally tasted on day three and loved instantly. After his visit, Edge always finds that he’s out of stock.)

Papyrus becomes a regular.

He settles in.

He comes, he studies the familiar menu, he gets a drink and lingers at the counter, chatting about everything and nothing: the weather, the coffee, the local news. He seems chummy, but he never offers much personal info about himself, aside from certain funny trivialities. He never asks for it, too.

Slowly, bit by bit, Edge starts talking back. A casual smirk, elbows rested on the well-polished counter, steam rising over the forgotten cup; Edge sends little jabs and Papyrus dodges each one with optimistic ignorance. Papyrus is the perfect target to bounce off sarcasm, he finds. It’s entertaining.

It slowly becomes familiar. A part of a routine. Another thing to look forward to, day by day. 

It’s nice.

If only he did not order those abominations.


	3. an acquired taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing out of ordinary, and yet.

“Really? Oh golly, I really thought it was a font.”

“I hear that a lot. But no. Just a nickname.”

“Huh! So… were  _ you  _ called after the cafe or vice versa?”

“First one. ‘Black Edge’ is a small town, northeast of Ebbott. I lived there. Nice place. Thought the name was fitting for a coffeeshop. At least it’s more original than putting ‘Capitol’ or ‘Dawnshade’ up there like every second cafe does. We have more than two cities in the country, thank stars.”

“Is Black Edge really black?”

“The cliffs are. Some mineral thing going on, I guess… The town’s not too well-known, it turns out. People thought that the cafe was named after me. That I was the ‘black Edge’. I mean, what with the uniform and everything. And so it stuck.”

“What’s your real name, then?”

Edge smirks. Oh, that moment is well worth the wait. “Papyrus.”

Papyrus does not catch himself in time, and his expression goes through five stages of grief two times in a row. 

“Wait, what? Really?”

“Really.”

“Good Angel...” Papyrus suddenly freezes for a moment with the realisation. “Let me guess, you are somewhere from your mid-twenties to early thirties.”

“So I am,” Edge confirms, his mouth corners twitching upwards.

Papyrus solemnly nods. “Just as I thought. You also belong to the generation of poor souls with overly creative parents. I swear, it was as if they suddenly realised that the world was not confined to Times New Roman and Arial and Georgia, and they rushed for the variety.”

Edge now smirks full force. “And yet somehow, every other skeleton you meet is named Papyrus.”

“Or Comic Sans Serif”, Papyrus adds with a sigh and an eyeroll. “I’ll never understand it! The fashion’s ways are truly ineffable, and also sometimes it sucks.”

Edge pauses and looks away for a few moments. Disclosing something as  _ personal  _ as that feels borderline blasphemous - even though it might seem innocuous for most, his old habits show no signs of aging. Still, after a few moments of hesitation, he ventures, “I have a brother called Comic Sans Serif. Goes by Serif.”

Papyrus’ eyesockets go cartoonishly round. “No way.”

“And yet.”

“No, it just cannot be.”

“Why?”

Edge’s favorite customer makes a theatrical pause, sipping on his drink (today it is a mocha) and waiting till Edge’s brows make a perfect arch.

“I also have a brother named Sans,” he finally admits. 

“Oh. That’s a funny coincidence.”

“No, you don’t - Just Sans. He’s just named Sans. That’s it. That is his birth name. He still goes by the whole package officially, but we both know the truth.”

Edge feels very predictably surprised. A guy like Papyrus could not possibly be the product of a boring family unit, after all. “How?”

“I guess they thought that’s just how the font was called. He says it’s like being legally called Dick instead of Richard.”

Edge quietly snorts into his palm. “I guess he’d rather be legally called Comic.”

“He’d rather! He can only wish!” Papyrus sighs, shaking his head. “...Alright, he  _ might  _ be funny, but after everything I went through I refuse to acknowledge that on principle! Imagine, he uses me as the training target for all the dad jokes he thinks up, and he’s not even my dad.”

“Tough love, I see.” 

“It’s tough loving him indeed! You have to sink to his level first, and that’s a lot of sinkage.” Papyrus groans, throwing his head back in anguish, but then he gives Edge a curious look. “With all that nickname talk, I wonder what kind of nickname I’d have?”

Edge hums, giving him a very serious look all over. Then his stare slides from the conspicuous crumbles over Papyrus’ shirt to the empty shelf where the pastries once lay. “Creampuff, most likely.”

Papyrus gives him a stare in reply that is pointedly unamused, and Edge decides that it’s all very funny. And, also, that the epiquet is staying for all eternity.

“What? Something’s the matter, Puff?”

The newly-named Puff tries to drill a few holes in Edge’s skull with his piercing glare, but after a few minutes he learns that the task is futile and comes back to nursing his drink. Oh well, he cannot always be the annoying one. Sometimes Edge manages to annoy him back, and he’s learned to cherish those moments.

A cozy, content silence washes over after that, leaving Edge to his counter and Puff to his mocha. There’s no one else at the shop, just like every time Puff decides to swing by; Edge can only wonder if that is a running coincidence or a preference. Anyway, it is a nice, frosty day, as clear and pleasant as they can be in late fall. The sun shines without any real warmth, but with a certain sweet wistfulness. The sky is crispy blue. Edge gives the mocha in Puff’s fingers a quick glance: it is really the perfect weather for warming your soul, and your hands, with a cup of velvet bitterness.

Well, more like your  _ hand _ , in Puff’s case.

Edge’s furtive side glance slides over to the nondescript black sling, half-hidden under Puff’s equally black coat (whose identical twin still adorns the hanger to the left of the door). On one hand, it is none of his business, and Puff seems just as reluctant to offer much personal details about himself as Edge. The tidbit about a brother was the first piece of information on Puff’s personal life ever, and both of the brothers’ names are way too popular to be somehow telling. On the other hand… well, there is a suspicious sling on that other hand, and Edge quietly wonders about the why and how.

“I got it on the job.”

Edge does not startle, but he raises a brow. “What?”

Puff smiles, and somehow, even if Edge can swear it’s just a normal smile, it seems just a bit less… exuberantly sunny. “You had the question written on your face, and I took the initiative to read it to the class! So, well, I got the break on the job.” 

“Ah.” Edge picks a random cup and a towel and starts wiping it: somehow, that puts people at ease. Or maybe he’d like to think so, because it puts  _ him  _ at ease. “I was not going to ask.”

For some reason, Puff does not have a witty reply to that. He goes back to his cup, idly whirling the drink. Edge cannot tell if it was the right or the wrong thing to say, so he simply returns to his own thing as well. 

The silence lingers again, but it feels different this time: less comfortable. Edge feels it wrap around him like an itchy coat, too annoying to forget that you are wearing it. Eventually, he ventures, “Where do you work?”

Puff blinks, as if just woken up, but then answers anyway. “I’m a bouncer! Sadly, the job involves less bouncing than you’d think. Unless you count jaws bouncing off the pavement. Then yes, there’s quite a bit of that.”

Edge raises a brow. That’s strange - and he does not mean the job. He can easily picture Puff dealing with the hooligans with his unbridled ignorance and perhaps a shake or two by the scruff of their collars. It is a different matter that makes him wonder. There aren’t too many bars around, at least not the ones he cares to know about, and the gritty illegal speakeasies cannot afford to hire a bouncer in a proper suit. “How far are you willing to travel to get a cup of coffee?”

Puff snorts. “Not too far! Though I’d travel anywhere for that ambrosia kick.” He sighs like a Romeo who has finally scored his Juliette. “Believe it or not, you are the first one to actually make me that mix without the pesky prepons like ‘worrying for my health’ or ‘safety hazards’.” 

The air quotes he makes are so thick that they are nearly visible. 

“I believe you on that. So?”

“Oh, right. Well, I work at Red Wings.”

Puff says that matter-of-factly, but his words warrant a quick, squinted stare from Edge. The mood drops as quick as that bombshell did. Red Wings… well, the name is a bit too infamous to slide by, and Edge has a metaphorical ear trained for things like that. It’s not a reference you can throw in without certain baggage dragging behind it.

He quickly recalls stuff he knows about the place - a large casino in the suburbs, quite a distance away but perhaps not so much if you have a car, and  _ closely affiliated  _ if you understand what that means - and he, somehow, feels a new feeling of unpleasant wonder poke the inside of his skull. 

It’s not immediately bad news. It’s just that most news about Red Wings tend to be bad.

Of course, it might be the case of a newbie trying to impress the audience and being slightly incorrect about their place of work, but… He does not think Puff is lying about working there. Something tells him that if Puff was lying, he’d rather weave a tale of being a secret astronaut. Or, at least, a secret agent. He’d probably pass, what with the suit and the inability to share anything consequential.

Edge pauses, gives a reluctant glance at himself in the polished counter and admits, with a sigh, that all pots and kettles are indeed black in this shop.

Anyway, Puff bouncing away at Red Wings is something far from the norm. Far from the quiet, quaint life Edge has. Then again, knowing Puff - even on the surface level that Edge knows Puff - he can imagine the ever-upbeat skeleton simply walking into the biggest building he could find and grabbing the vacancy by pure luck and determination. And yet, as alluring as it is… there’s always another possibility, one that he cannot ignore so easily. And it’s troubling. Extremely so.

Edge does not look up, and Puff hasn’t moved an inch, but he feels like both of them are overthinking things about one another. Yet, nothing seems amiss. In all these weeks, there hasn’t been a single accident, a single hitch in the usual smooth sailing. There hasn’t been anything that would make him suspicious. Given that  _ everything _ makes him suspicious, that means a lot.

He sighs. Well, maybe Puff is just a real creampuff in nature. Maybe his paranoia is getting the best of him. Maybe.

It’s a very convincing ‘maybe’ - perhaps because he  _ wants  _ to be convinced.

“Shame about that injury,” he says in the end with a noncommittal shrug. “You probably wish you’d come better  _ armed _ .”

“Well, I am not exactly allowed- Wait.” Puff squints. “Oh, oh ho ho, no, you would not dare.”

“I would not dare what?”

“You know what you did!”

“And what was that?”

Slowly, the atmosphere comes back to the jokes and lightheartedness that he’s come to cherish. Puff keeps squinting, for some reason sliding his mocha away from Edge’s reach as if he is suddenly afraid of finding rat poison in his cup the next time he looks away. Edge smirks at him with the most annoying smug look he can muster. Puff threatens him to singlehandedly hang him on the hanger along with Puff’s own coat, Edge threatens to cut him off, life goes on, and the sun lazily glides in through the windows, dripping into puddles of light over the floor and chair seats.

It is fine again.

Or it should be.

Some part of Edge’s mind, perhaps the same one that makes him scrub the already clean counter and calibrate the position of the sugar dispenser, is unrested and unsure. It does not want uncertainty, and Puff is uncertainty. Worse, he is a possibly bad uncertainty; and for a moment Edge wants nothing but to get away from that disturbance. Of course, it is ridiculous to want to throw away a perfect customer for no real reason, and it is equally ridiculous to suspect them of plotting your demise behind your back just because they work somewhere, but logic rarely intersects with feelings.

Edge’s hands itch, and he is eyeing the mop for the third time today, but the source of his anxiety unknowingly saves him himself. 

Over both of their heads, the clock ticks, measuring away the half an hour Puff can usually spare. Without noticing the owner’s distress, the cheerful bouncer finally asks for his signature poison and slides down from the counter with a sigh. “Well! It’s fun as always, but I have to go. My break is almost over, and I don’t want to be late.”

Edge frowns at the monstrosity drink for reasons other than disgust. Right. The feeling only grows, bolstered by the thought of being left alone and bored for the foreseeable future, and he can tell he will spend half his soap in one go today. He already starts nervously scrubbing the corner of the counter where Puff’s elbow rested as soon as he hands over the drink. “Right. Don’t run too many red lights.”

Puff puffs out his chest, truly earning his namesake. “I would not think of that! I am an exemplar citizen, and also I don’t have a car.”

Edge freezes mid-wipe. “What?..” 

“What? I don’t have a car. Not with me right now, at least. Parking here is a pain in the tailbone.”

Calculations of distances, timelines and bus routes race through Edge’s mind. “But there is no direct route from there to here?..”

“Oh, of course there is,” Puff says patiently. “It is called a road! Roads lead everywhere if you know where to go.”

Edge shakes his head. The cogs start turning, but freeze yet again at the realization. “You… you are not saying that you  _ walk  _ the entire way?!”

“No, no, of course not! That’s ridiculous!”

Edge barely has time to be soothed by that reassurance. The next moment, Puff shines his best smile, throws the door open and, just as the chimes ring out, he leans back and cheerfully tells Edge, “I  _ run _ .”

The door slams shut. Chimes ring and bounce hysterically for a few moments before finally calming. Then it is quiet again. 

Edge sits there for a good minute after that, stupefied. Then he remembers to breathe out. The resulting breath sounds like a snort and a choke simultaneously.

The whole situation is, somehow, so beautifully simple and dumb - so very like Puff - that he keeps thinking about it the whole day, shaking his head the way he’s used to by now, and his thoughts stray far from the thorns of unanswered questions. He does not even get overly enthusiastic with cleaning, or at least not as much as he could if he did not have a distraction.   


He locks up everything and paces down the darkened street, his breath rising in a steam cloud from his scarf. He runs, imagine! A small smirk touches his face again, and for a couple more hours Edge's soul is calm enough.

It does not mean that he forgets it altogether, though. Late at night, back at home, when he’s tucked into his stiff cheap sheets, the crawly little worries rise to the surface again, and he wonders… and wonders… and wonders…

The purple city night slips through his blinds. It is slowly getting lighter. He turns a few times before accepting it and lying with his eyesockets wide open. He cannot sleep.   


He cannot stop thinking.

Edge prefers to have as few unknown variables as possible. He likes order, and timetables, and familiar people, and predictable events; he likes his small world where he is in control. 

Now his world has one more citizen, one that he cannot trust.

Perhaps he should ask around. Nothing more. Just to prove once and for all that Puff is as much of a sweet pastry as he seems to be. That is it.

Then, for once, he can finally safely rest.


	4. intermission: badly made cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baby Edge gets a gun, he wants to shoot bottles, his brother teaches him to shoot bottles :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: guns, shooting practice, pointing guns at people(?), sliiiiight hint at the Not Exactly Healthy Relationship from the tags. The whole chapter is sadly infused with those, but if anything you can just skip it: this is a flashback, not plot, and you will not miss THAT much.

“There you go. Don’t yank that thing around, it’s not a rubber chicken. Steady, steady.”

Papyrus makes a slightly annoyed hum of acknowledgment. He’s just Papyrus for now, or Pyrus when Serif is being nice, or Papsy when he isn’t. Above all, he’s still about twenty years shy of becoming Edge. And he has just gotten a gun. The fact makes him proud and giddy to the point of feeling slightly sick.

It is an old, old wish finally fulfilled. Serif has had his own gun for quite a while, and Papyrus eyed it with interest every time he took it out to clean, but there was no talk of getting another weapon and Papyrus knew better than to ask. And yet, here they are! Serif says it is for protection, but all Papyrus can think about is the green bottles shattering on the grey wooden box, green shards bursting everywhere with such a pleasing sound. He has never been happier. 

There is something else to it, too. A gun is an adult thing; pretty much like finally being allowed to play with the big boys. Though, Papyrus still does not quite understand the point of guns when you have magic bullets and whatnot. Serif says that guns are more discrete, but Papyrus thinks that it’s bullshit because the entire point of guns is to make as much noise as possible.

Serif tuts, poking Papyrus in the arm with the sharp fingertip. “You are better off clubbing someone with it like that, kid. Move your fingers -  _ move _ , I said. No, not like that. Ugh, I am regretting it already. Just give it here, I’ll-”

Papyrus immediately hugs his new toy to his chest, glaring at Serif and jumping back a few steps - ready to flee if needed. He’s not giving that away this easily! He’d rather die fighting on that hill! It’s his gun now, no take-backsies, and if you have any regrets, you are welcome to carry them to your grave.

Now, that might be either a smart move or a really dumb one, depending on Serif’s mood. If the mood is fine, it’s fine; but Papyrus still tenses up just in case it’s not. He does not want to give the gun away, he wants to have one just like Serif does! Please, let it be one of the good moods...

His elder brother pauses and croaks out a loud laugh, and it is a sign of Serif  _ maybe  _ having a nice enough day to leave it be; that is only ascertained when Serif calls out “Come here, Pyrus, I won’t eat you for hell’s sake”, and only then does Papyrus cautiously come closer.

Serif lovingly smacks him across the skull, grabs his hand that’s still clutching a gun and forces it into the right position. “There. Like that. Got it?”

Papyrus gives it a look, cocks the gun to look as cool as possible and flares his pointy grin at Serif. “Yeah! I want to shoot the bottles now.”

“Whoa, shortie, you are getting bold there. You think you can hit them?”

“Yeah, I want to! I want to try! I like the sound when they-” Papyrus splays his free hand, imitating a small burst. “Bzd-dinng! I like it.” 

“You like it, eh?”

“Yeah! Please get me the bottles.”

“And what have you done to deserve them? They cost money, you know.”

Papyrus pouts. “They don’t, they are just empty bottles!”

“No, no, they cost money. I could hand them in and get a few pieces. Enough for a cocoa, are you worth enough to trade in for a cup? I don’t think so. I’d trade you in for a single marshmallow, maybe, and that would be big.”

“Hey!” Papyrus expresses his utter fury by smacking his elder brother in the spine while Serif guffaws. “I would - I would sell  _ you _ for a - for a  _ half  _ of a marshmallow!”

“And you want me to spend money on a bandit like you, huh? An ungrateful bastard of a skeleton who undersells his brother and doesn’t pull his fair share?”

“Alright, fine! I’ll cook your dumb breakfast, I’ll do!” Feeling like that is somehow not ideal, Papyrus polishes it over with a hasty “And I’d sell you for  _ two  _ marshmallows.”

Serif chuckles. “Well, well, how’d I say no to such an angel.” He grunts, rubs his back - he has a sore spot there, and Papyrus’ wrathful palms sadly come to this exact height - and walks over to the small box by the shed where he keeps the bottles. Papyrus gleefully watches him set up a small target practice against the wall: the wood there is dotted with old bullet holes. “There - if you get at least one, I’ll get you your cocoa.”

He does not really have to say that - Papyrus is already giddy about the whole ordeal. He remembers Serif practicing with his own old gun back when they were both younger. Serif used to come to this field, to this exact spot where the abandoned shed stands. Each time he pulled the tarp off the wooden box by the wall, set a few bottles in a row and then stepped backwards, slowly, counting the steps. Papyrus always tagged along, and he watched his brother hoist up the gun and aim with one eye closed. Then the shot rang out, and a bottle shattered with a loud clatter - or not, making Serif grunt in annoyance and aim again. After all the bottles turned into green hash, sometimes he’d send Papyrus to set a new row, and he’d stand with a hand on his hip and a lazy squint while Papyrus hurried to do his job; sometimes he’d wave the gun at Papyrus too, with his finger off the trigger, and say “Pow, pow,” to make the kid zigzag with giggles. And then he’d aim again.

Papyrus slowly points the gun up, trying to copy his brother, and squints. “Serif?”

“What’s that, pipsqueak?”

“Why guns are discrete?”

“I don’t know, why’s the sky blue?”

Papyrus stops trying to aim and sends Serif an annoyed look, to the latter’s delight. “No… really?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” After a few seconds of Papyrus standing there in agony of unsatisfied curiosity, Serif concedes. “Look here, kid.” He summons a bone, sends it to the shed’s wall with a flick of his wrist; Papyrus watches without much interest, because that’s the easiest trick possible. The bone pierces the wood and gets lodged into it. “Now tell me who made that hole.”

“You did. Just now.”

“No no, you dumbass. No - think about it like that.” Serif sighs and squats next to Papyrus, balancing himself with one hand on his brother’s shoulder. He gestures towards the shed with the other hand. “Think about it like… well, imagine that you weren’t here. Imagine that you just come here and see that hole. Now, who made it?”

Papyrus carefully looks at the small bone stuck among the splinters. “Someone who has bone attacks.”

“Bingo. Now, look here.” Serif yanks the gun away faster than Papyrus can stop him and in an instant shoots it once, aiming in the same direction. Papyrus almost does not flinch at the sound, and he feels a little proud of himself before Serif squeezes his shoulder in an order to focus. “Who made  _ that _ hole?”

A small dot of a bullet hole is added to many, many specks that fetter the old shed’s wall. Papyrus frowns. “Someone… with a gun?”

“There you go. Now… imagine that you are looking for that hole maker because you hate their face for making holes in your wall. You don’t know who they are, you can only see the holes. Which one will be easier to find, the one with bones or the one with a gun?”

Papyrus clacks his teeth a few times, thinking. The white bone is firmly stuck in the wall, standing out against the grey wood and small dark dots. “The bones? The bone one.”

“There. Easier to find a monster by their attacks, you know? If you see ashes, you go for someone who throws fire… with bones, see, you go to the skeletons.” Serif weighs the gun and hands it back to Papyrus, handle first. “But a gun, a gun says nothing. Anyone can have it, everyone and their mom, see? You can throw it away, or swap it. It’s just a gun. If you see a bullet, where can you even start to look? And that’s the business.” He leans a little closer, pointing to the bottle row by the shed. “Now, make that good bzdinnng. Break a few bottles. Steady your hand, breathe out and bam.”

Papyrus nods, picks the gun, points it up. It is heavy and impressively solid. Serif’s hand is firm on his shoulder. 

He breathes out and slowly presses the trigger.

  
  


Serif eventually makes him the cocoa that day, even if it does not taste good at all.


	5. something tea-colored in a teacup

With Puff being suspicious and Edge being Edge, the latter decides to do something about it - which is easier said than done, to be honest. Nearly two months pass in repetitive meetings that produce little extra information. They aren’t entirely… useless, Edge admits, nursing an amused smirk, but they do not have much of a practical value.

Puff offers precisely little about himself, his job or his life, and that would count as evidence if Edge wasn’t exactly the same. And asking about personal details without offering anything yourself is rather... alarming. Edge is not the biggest socialite around, but even he understands as much, so that road is closed for him.

Trying to deduce something from the circumstantial evidence is equally hard. There is no pattern to Puff’s visits. He mostly comes and goes as he pleases. And yet, Edge cannot help but notice that sometimes he hears of a shooting somewhere in the morning and then Puff fails to show up at noon. Then again, sometimes Puff comes after the news of a commotion or stays away during a day of peace and quiet - and the same can be said about literally  _ any _ customer of “Black Edge”. Yet, some part of Edge refuses to believe in coincidences, no matter how glaring.

The same part of him insists that Puff’s secretiveness must be malicious in nature, and not a mere character trait; that his work-related injuries are a warning sign instead of a sadly natural part of a bouncer’s job; that even his suit is pointing to something completely unrelated to fashion choices or dress code. This part latches onto any minute detail and declares it a piece of the puzzle, and Edge spends his waking hours overthinking - before arriving at the inevitable conclusion that he is a paranoid idiot. Then he wonders,  _ but what if?.. _ , and the cycle starts anew.

There’s little else he can do. It is not like Edge has a vast, overreaching net of informants on his side, something straight out of a secret agent movie. No, he is just an independent owner of an impossibly small business, and he does not even have a friendly police detective he could try to bribe with some really good arabica.

Alright, maybe he has one, but Dyne is an officer, not a detective, and she does not hand out favors, even if they've known each other for a while. The most they’ve talked was when she accidentally squeezed a cup too tight and needed some towels and a bandage as a result. That’s definitely not the stage of friendship where you acknowledge your paralyzing paranoia and ask for slightly illegal help.

Yet, one morning the said Officer Undyne comes in by herself. She shakes the frost off her coat, shuddering at the temperature change, and gives the snowy outside a pissed look. Then she sees Edge and grumbles, “Alright, I have a couple of questions for you.”

Edge hums in the most noncommittal way. “Which kind? And double americano, I assume?”

“The… not really official kind. You don’t have to go to the precinct or call your lawyer for that one. And right you are, tall boy. Make it as dark as your entire establishment.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.” The machine is started, and he turns around to her once more, arms crossed but leaning slightly forward. “Well?”

Dyne struggles with her words for a moment, but then she subdues them and asks, “Have you seen other skeletons around?”

Edge feels the familiar hot-cold anxiety rise, but this time it is coupled with a tiny smug  _ Aha.  _ Externally, he raises a brow. “Generally, over the course of my life? Yes.”

Dyne growls before rising her hands in capitulation - she really  _ is _ being vague. “Smartass. Listen, I don’t have a whole lot of leads there, okay? It’s more of a personal hunch than an official thing, because I’ve ran into them once or twice, and I’m pretty sure that I got a glimpse of a bony arm or whatever.” She sighs. “So, like… maybe there are some suspicious ones you’ve met lately? I’m not saying that every skeleton personally knows every other skeleton, but let’s be honest, if anyone asks around the precinct, I’ll know most water types living around, and it’s probably the same everywhere. Like sticks to like and all.”

Edge gives her another hum, followed by her coffee. “Define suspicious. Also, what are they like, and what in the void are they wanted for. And why are you taking on a detective’s job? Money troubles, officer?”

“Har har. Suspicious means suspicious, duh. I’m asking for your gut feelings, not a full dossier.” Dyne rolls her only eye. “I cannot tell you anything about the why, that's an ongoing investigation, and also go to void. And about the appearance… Tall, about my size. Dresses in black but, well, they all do… Is a skeleton… Pretty slender…” She trails off, taking Edge in with a defeated sigh. “I guess that’s not a precise portrait, is it.”

“Anyone can fit it, yes. Including me.” Edge rubs the counter a little too forcibly, punctuating his discontent. “Are you going to suspect me as well?”

“No… no, I’m not that desperate.” Dyne rubs a circle into her forehead, trying to massage away the tension. “Like I said. Not too many leads. But not few enough to mix you in - I've learned by now that you're either really good at masking or indeed an exemplary citizen. So?...”

Edge thinks.

He does know one particular skeleton that fits the definition of ‘suspicious’. In fact, here’s his one in a million chance of actually doing something about it, even if with someone else’s hands. He should, if only to be able to sleep at night.

And yet…

“No,” he says aloud. “Probably not.”

Purposefully vague, and it is hard to tell if he does not know any skeletons, or if he does but they aren’t suspicious, or if he means something else entirely - but Dyne reads it as what she expects to hear and wilts. “Yeah, man, thought so. Well, be on the lookout, will you?” She gives him a grin and slaps him on the shoulder hard enough to almost send his arm flying across the shop. “Be a good citizen and help out the police force, huh?”

“Sure,” Edge grunts with a sudden sour taste in his mouth. Helping the police, what an absolute dream.

After Dyne leaves, though, he feels like an utter fool. For all his dislike of the state institutions, he had a chance to legally, easily deal with the disturbance, and he chose not to! He only had to cue Officer in, and she’d run a check, or whatever they do in such situations, and… he’d have to be paranoid no more. Not about Puff, at least.

And yet... there is a part of Edge that almost does not want to know.

It is not a big part, and not the loudest one by any means, but it is there, and it is hard to overlook. Edge cannot help but admit that, for all the trouble, their meetings are… refreshing. He even looks forward to them, somewhat; if not for his mixed feelings, he’d say that he cherishes them.

It is like a carefully organised chaos, a planned break from the routine. Puff is so calm, and carefree, and funny. He is not afraid of a one-sided conversation when Edge is in poor mood; he does not flee from sarcasm. He turns Edge’s dry humor onto Edge himself and then waits for the other to bounce it back, and… well, this is the closest that Edge has come to upholding a friendship with anyone in years. This is the closest he has gotten to anyone, too, which is even funnier - given that not sharing anything confidential is their mutual shtick.

Indeed, there’s the ballet-like precision of Puff dancing around the touchier subjects; nothing but business and easy chats. It should not come as a surprise that Edge cannot deal with vulnerability, either his own or someone else's. He has no idea what to do with it. He always feels like someone who's been handed a baby to hold for the first time ever, and the mother is nowhere to be seen. Once he learns that there is no danger of having to drop his witty banter for the sake of a deep, thoughtful conversation, he breathes a sigh of relief.

There are other things, big and small. Puff learns where things should stand, and he always adjusts them if a customer has moved something. He lets Edge listen to some of the music he likes - from country rock songs to 90s bops - and nearly screams in joy when Edge puts one of them on next time he visits. One day he brings in a shabby cactus with wiggly eyes stuck to it, claiming it to be a lucky find, and then forgets it in the shop several times in a row until it gets its own permanent spot on one of the windows. He learns the difference between the times when Edge scoffs for real and when he’s trying not to snort, and once or twice he almost  _ makes _ him laugh out loud. There’s a lot, and a lot more, built up from tiny pieces of nice time together.

It is almost a friendship. Almost a mutual respect. And Edge is… reluctant to lose that, especially with no hard evidence present.

He cannot help but wonder about Puff's own thoughts on the subject, though. While Edge is a natural loner (a lone wolf, as he prefers to put it himself), Puff seems to be a social butterfly - or at least just a really friendly, really outgoing guy. He probably has friends, and coworkers he likes. Maybe he has a partner or several. He definitely has a brother, and Edge wonders what this Comic is like - aside from Comic’s sense of humor, which he can envision just fine. Sometimes, when his paranoia calms down a bit, he imagines the life Puff must have: a life of everyone's friend and favorite, in the center of positive attention, with a large loving family that is always there to boost his morals. Edge does not get too jealous, or he tries to, but… well, a skeleton's thoughts are a private place. 

And still, Puff comes here, alone, to drink and chat. It almost feels like a purposeful hangout, especially if you squeeze your eyes and don’t think too hard about the reality of things.

Puff probably does not think much of his visits. For him, it is just another coffee shop and just another grumpy worker who looks permanently stuck in a rebellious phase, thank you sharp-toothed ancestors, and just another person to chat with while his break ticks to an end.

Perhaps the secretiveness is simply… the lack of desire to open up to a near stranger. Perhaps all the nice things about Puff are just politeness and a well-kept distance between a client and a cashier. Perhaps. It's okay.

For all the worries, and doubts, and sad thoughts, Edge counts hours (and then minutes) till the moment Puff comes. The chimes sing, the door slams open, the forgotten coat on the hanger bounces in the gust of wind, and there he comes: always smiling like he is really happy to be here, to come in, to talk.

Edge finds it weirdly easy to smirk back, and only he knows how often the smirk hides a real smile.

Dyne can figure out things herself; he’ll be damned if he helps her on that. He does not even know what the deal is, and what they are investigating. Maybe someone stole a lolly from a local monster kid, for all he cares. 

He shakes his head and glances at the clock. His mood improves instantly, and he hums a little tune, wondering if Puff will show up today.

***

The chimes jingle, but it is another person at the door.

“Sup,” Serif says, his hands in the pockets of a sun-bleached coat and his lazy grin on full display. He slips inside with the grace of an overpampered house cat, not bothering to wipe off his snow-covered boots, and makes his unhurried way towards the counter. “So, who are they?”

Edge gives him an annoyed look that's only slightly mellowed out by affection. “Who?”

“The… whoever you were on the lookout for. Staring at the door like that. I know you’re not half as eager to see my mug around, you bastard. You were waiting for someone else.” Serif’s elbows are firmly planted on the counter, and he leans his weight into it: he is definitely curious, but he won’t ever show that, and they both know it. “So, who’s the pretty face you were trying to get a glance of? Let me guess, you finally got the hots for Isabelle. The girl really has it going.”

“She does, and she has seventy years of a headstart over me in that. We’d never be on par.” Edge rolls his eyes as his brother chuckles. “Since when it’s your business, though?”

“Since the moment my little bro grew up into a beanpole that sprouts eye candy. Need to give my parental go-ahead to the possible spouses, you know? Besides, I want to follow the plot. It’s like a soap opera, except better.”

Edge heartily smacks Serif across the skull with the rug, to the latter’s delight. “Twice the reason to keep it from you, then.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Serif grumbles, swatting the rug away. He smirks, then, in a way that is so alike Edge. “Though, a little birdie told me that there’s a pretty boy hanging around these parts, often.”

Edge knows for a fact that this is bluff, so he shrugs. “Yeah, that is the point of a business. Getting regular customers.”

“Sure. Do they have to leave their clothes around, though?” Serif points back to the door - and the forgotten coat on the hanger. “Thank stars it’s not pants, or we’d have to have a talk.”

Edge almost does not growl, and he considers that a personal victory. “Well, wowie, I did not know people were not allowed to forget things.”

“Sure, sure - but most people, you’d be on their backs right away.” His elder brother’s expression is enough to warrant strangling, and also probably enough to get him parole in court afterwards. “To think that you’d allow someone to just leave their stuff around? Forget things my ass, sure, yeah.”

Edge plays his trump card. “I simply don’t want to alienate someone who pays seventy gold a cup.”

Serif nearly falls back, and his round eyesockets make it so worth it. “Wait, what? Seventeen, you mean? Right? I’m just getting deaf with age, right?”

“Seventy. Not to mention small expenses.” That bouncer’s job must be lucrative, he thinks to himself; for a moment, he feels a slight pang of conscience for robbing Puff dry, but then he remembers the monstrosity he's forced to make nearly every day, and his conscience falls back asleep.

“Stars. Okay, I take back everything I said, and also I am applying for the, uh, second coffee boy vacancy. Sweet stars, seventy gold per cup.” Serif rubs his forehead. “You aren’t smuggling anything into that cup, no?”

“Nothing, except for espresso shots in double digits.” Edge huffs, relishing the way Serif stares. Finally, someone can understand his struggles. “At least he does his own syrup pumps.”

“He’d better.” Serif suddenly chuckles. “So it  _ is _ a boy, huh.” 

“A paying customer. Nothing else.” 

“Yeah, like you tolerate those much. So what, a guy comes in, leaves his stuff around, gets some stupid shit that’s not even on the menu… and he’s still coming back, not even a black eye to match the theme? Either you’re mellowing out, or he’s a real catch.” Serif wiggles his eyebrows intensely. “So… Got his number yet, or you’re still at the look-and-blush stage? Just so you know, better make your move. Pretty  _ and  _ dumb  _ and _ rich, huh. I might just snatch him myself if you take too long, you know? Bet he won't be able to resist this wide load of male charms. Unless he's solely into sad twinks like you.”

Edge chokes on his words four times before jumping over the counter with a rug in one hand and chasing Serif up and down the room with a war cry - lucky enough, the cafe is empty, and the neighbors upstairs know the routine by now. Serif evades the attacks with his trademark catlike grace, chuckling, and he even has the gall to yawn; this is his downfall, though, because he loses concentration and is soon dangling from Edge’s hand, held by the foot. “Well?”

Serif sweats, swaying slightly. “I regret my hubris. Please, kind sir, please take pity on me.”

“For the last time. And only because we’re related.”

“I welcome nepotism with my entire soul.” Serif presses his palms together. “Thank you, mister. Thank you so much. Also, put me down this instant or I'm kicking you in the chin.”

Edge throws him vaguely in the direction of the door. Serif, somehow, lands perfectly on a chair instead and almost puts his feet on the table before stealing a glance of Edge's face and deciding against it. 

They talk more after that, and threaten each other more after that, and it is incredibly annoying but also weirdly calming in its own way. Edge's soul settles in Serif's presence just like it's always done, ever since they were kids. Nevermind that they are both well past childhood now, Serif slowly marching towards his forties - some things fail to change, even if everything else is twisted beyond recognition.

Despite himself, Edge tells his brother about Dyne's visit and his own suspicions. Serif thoughtfully whirls his tea cup as if it was a whiskey glass; when he goes to sniff it, his face turns confused for a moment before he remembers that he is having tea and tea  _ is  _ supposed to smell like that. Then he sighs. “You are a paranoid idiot.”

Edge breathes out, feeling better for some reason. “Says you.”

“I’m serious. I get it that you’re careful about the RW, what with the back door business and all, but it’s a goddamn casino plus a restaurant. You can’t stuff it with gang members only, even if it is a really big gang. Which it isn’t. Maybe ten years ago it was, but now they can barely keep it together, I’ve heard. Who was that guy that owned the place, what’s his name? Anyway, if he has a lick of common sense, he won’t put thugs into the kitchen. Or take random cleaners into the family. Most likely, that beaut of yours isn’t even aware what’s going on behind the scenes.” Serif huffs, long and deep, as if exhaling smoke from a cigar. “I can check him, I guess, just to be on the safe side. Without a last name or details, it’ll take time… but what I wouldn’t do to spare my bro some jitters.”

Edge rolls his eyelights, but he is secretly glad to hear that; while Dyne’s check could be disastrous and upheaving, he can trust Serif to keep it subtle. Best of all, he knows that Serif will never tell a living soul about it. He rarely tells anyone anything as it is. 

When leaving, Serif declares, “Show me the pretty boy sometime! I need to see the face my bro has fallen for!” before slipping out, closely followed by a rug flung into his direction. Edge watches it hit the door, sighs and goes to retrieve it. 

Serif is a stubborn beast, and he is hard to convince of something once he’s made up his mind. Now he seems to believe that his brother has a crush. The audacity! Edge does not quite appreciate the jokes of that caliber, especially not when he’s barely figuring out what to feel about all of that… but he’s learned that it’s best to roll with the punches sometimes. Serif is just like that: loud, obnoxious and utterly blunt. He steamrolls over the boundaries. Somehow, though, that has never gotten him beaten seriously - aside from a few well-earned bitch slaps. 

Must be a talent.

Edge tuts to himself, still a bit irritated. At least he’s calmed down enough to feel better about the whole deal. With his paranoia at bay, he can finally see that the chances of a cheerful bouncer being included in something illegal and nefarious are indeed quite small. Sometimes silence is just silence, and injuries are just injuries, and a suit is just a requirement of an overly posh workplace. And about Dyne’s predicament, well, skeletons are not  _ that  _ rare and she was not sure anyway. 

Paranoid idiot, indeed. 

He waits for Puff for quite a long time after that, even long after the dinner break is over and the daylight starts dimming. Nothing happens. It seems to be a sadly Puff-less day. Edge feels a little let down, but he shakes his head with a grunt and goes to his work duties - the evening rush hour is getting closer, and he needs to be prepared.

Outside, it starts snowing.

The day goes on uneventfully, just like most of his days. He quietly snorts to himself when he sees Isabelle, the old beauty who easily (and jokingly) flirts with him every time; he greets his usual crowd with his usual dry jokes; he lets his thoughts trail away as he delves into the orders and conversations and occasional emergency cleaning. It’s almost meditative. It smells like coffee and pastries and wet fur and snow; it sounds like the low drone of a healthy beehive. Countless small worries are shared in tired voices, and yet none of them are enough to threaten this bubble of peace. The boots are getting snug. The salary is cut. Little Foxtrot needs a visit to the dentist. It’s familiar - it’s normal. Edge reigns over it all with a steady hand and a new rug, and his soul is calmed even further.

By the time he has to close shop, he is almost in a good mood. He gives the place another cleanup, grabs the garbage and makes a tour to the bins in the back alley. His thoughts are already with Serif and the results of his check, and then he thinks about the icy road home, and the snow all over his car. He shoves the bags into the bin, dusts his hands off. Here’s hoping no racoons will decide to visit.

As if to mock him, there’s a rustle of someone moving farther in the alley, right where it stops in a dead end. Edge sighs. Well, the animal is probably as tired as he is, so it will not do much damage. Hopefully. 

He still goes to check, just in case. There was a rabid dog running around once, and, while the experience was short, it was definitely memorable enough to warrant being careful.

A bone is summoned, both as a makeshift weapon and a light source, and he peers into the darkness, stepping away from the street lights. The noises have stopped, but he knows he’s heard what he’s heard. It must have noticed him and tried to hide - which means it is afraid of him, and that’s good. He steps closer.

There’s a cough. A very not animalistic one.

Edge freezes and drops into a stance that he thought he has forgotten. His left hand grips the bone tighter, and his right hand slips into his coat where-

-there is nothing. He is just a cafe worker. He does not carry a gun. The thought makes him feel both relieved and unnerved.

He subtly glances around. The source of the sound is not clear right away, since the walls echo it around quite a bit; but it has sounded close, and not from behind. That means…

He pauses before slowly, carefully leaning towards what he thought was a snowpuff. His fingers tremble just once before sweeping away the snow. Once, twice - 

He cannot help but make a sharp inhale.

It is, indeed, a snow Puff. He is curled against the wall, half-asleep; his trademark suit is ruined by snow and dirt, with the fabric torn in several places. One of his temples is adorned with the spiderweb of a crack. Edge feels something chalk-like cling to his finger bones when he sweeps the rest of the snow away, and the feeling makes his soul turn and sink.

Puff jerks awake at the touch, and he fumbles with a gesture that was supposed to be a lighting-fast reach into his coat - if not for his state making it slow and clumsy. Halfway through, though, his eyelights focus, and he seems to realize who he’s seeing. He makes a quiet gasp, looking the horrified Edge up and down. It takes another second, but his tense shoulders eventually slump, and he even ventures into a smile - small, but sunny, and so horribly unfitting for his exhausted face. 

“Hello,” he says, as if everything is right in the world. “I… guess I’ve missed the opening hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'3


	6. a bitter drink from the gas station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: injuries (mostly bone ones, but still)

It is still snowing. Large, heavy snowflakes cover the foot tracks in mere minutes. Sounds drown in them. It is as if winter is trying to shield this little alley from the world. Or bury the crime scene, perhaps.

Puff is in no shape to go anywhere - or move at all, which he demonstrates immediately by trying to walk off with a hand wave and then falling into a heap of uncoordinated bones before he even exits the alley. He immediately gathers as much snow all over himself as he previously had, spiting Edge’s best efforts to sweep it off a little. It is almost funny. It would be, if he was not hurt and barely able to stand in a dark alley on a cold December night. 

Five minutes later he’s huddled up on one of the cafe chairs and dripping all over the recently cleaned floors. He winces apologetically each time there’s a soft but distinct ring of a drop falling. Edge’s eyesocket twitches each time in tow.

On closer inspection, and without the protective coat of snow, Puff seems even worse off. He is thoroughly wet, with the clothes clinging to his bones rather unflatteringly; he nurses his left side, and the left half of his face has survived quite a hit, not to mention the injuries that might not be immediately visible; he is barely awake, yet twitchy and tense. The picture painted is not a pretty one. Edge’s own fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt.

“Sorry,” Puff says for the ninth time. “Thanks for having me so late, but… Really, I’m fine! I can walk home from here, it’s not that far.”

Edge waves his hand. “Sure. Stand up and go.”

Puff glares at him like Edge has just suggested eating his coat without mayo, but still he slowly sets one foot down and tries putting some weight onto it. His shin wobbles right away. Puff freezes, then squints and presses on, clinging onto the chair’s back and slowly sliding his body down to rest onto that foot. It wobbles more, but holds. Puff puts another foot down, wiggles it to check its structural integrity, and stands up. Then he experimentally lets go of the chair.

He manages to stay standing, even if he’s squatted like an amateur skater three feet from the banister. He sends Edge a triumphant, slightly indented smile.

Edge rubs his temple. “Sure. How many years will it take you to get home?”

Puff’s grin is replaced by a sour look immediately, and he wiggles in place with clear vengeful intention. Lumps of melted snow fall off him with soft shwacks. Edge winces in pain. 

“Okay,” he says, trying a different approach, “is there anyone I can call to make you melt all over  _ their _ place instead?”

Puff hesitates, blinking. Edge can almost see the gears turning; their naturally smooth running is slow and rickety now, no doubt due to the injuries and the hours in the cold. “Maybe… but…”

“But?”

“You see, um… I don’t have my phone. It was taken. In a robbery. I have been robbed.”

Edge squints. “Robbed? By whom?”

Another pause of hesitation, a slight frown; Puff is being too easy to read today, which is suddenly concerning. “I - I don’t know… There were lots of people. All very strong and very masked!”

“Right.”

“Yeah, um… I was cornered and roughed up, but they got distracted… So I bolted, and I guess by pure luck I ended up here.”

“Pure luck.”

“...Yeah!”

Edge makes a long, long sigh and then says, “It’s way too late for me to deal with this. Actually, what’s the time? I should have closed at ten thirty.”

“I know it’s late, sorry…” Puff pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch. “It’s ten forty, so…” He trails away, staring at the watch. A drop rolls down his brow, and it is not the melting snow this time. “Ah.”

Edge nods, grimly triumphant. A dirty, simple trick, but it worked. If that really was a robbery, they would have taken the watch too. “So you’re spinning tales to me. If you don’t want to tell the truth about what happened or why you don’t want to call someone to get you, either stay silent or lie better.”

Puff visibly wilts, and Edge feels a strange pang of guilt at that - even though, technically, he himself did nothing wrong. 

“Well!.. I already tried the lying option. Guess that did not work out for me.”

“So you aren’t going to tell?”

Puff simply gives him a kicked puppy look. Edge exhales through his mouth. Alright. He shouldn’t be surprised, because dancing around the subject is their whole dynamic, but stars it is infuriating in this particular context. “Alright. I get the idea. It’s none of my business.”

“I don’t mean it like… Nevermind. Okay. Sorry. I’ll... call him now.” Puff sighs and slowly pulls his phone out, looking like the captain of a looted ship hoisting up the white flag. He absentmindedly presses the button, then presses it a few more times with more zest. The screen stays black. When Puff turns it around a few times, the insides splash like a full shaker. 

Edge quietly whistles. “Alright, you cannot make  _ this  _ up.”

Puff clacks his teeth a few times, staring at his dead phone, and then he looks up with an unreadable expression. “I… I really don’t remember the number. I’m not lying. I’m sorry, I’m bad with numbers, and I never…”

“Fine, fine, okay. Stars,” Edge says, feeling like he is being played expertly. “I’ll drive you home. Just tell me the address.”

Puff wilts even more and falls back onto the chair again. “I- I cannot- It’s a bad idea.”

“Are you afraid of me remembering the address and breaking in when you’re not home?”

“No! No. Not that.” Puff winces and falls silent for a few seconds. “It’s just… the people who, uh, ‘robbed’ me - they could be waiting for me there. I think...”

This is one void of an answer, and it suggests more than Edge would like. He tenses up.

“Have anyone seen you come here?”

“No - no, I don’t think so.”

“Would they know to look for you here?”

“I… don’t think… It’s not like I come here every single day. And, well… it’s just a coffee shop.”

“Sure… Do you have another place to stay?”

“I - no. Not really. Maybe I could wait the night over here… if you don’t mind…” Puff does not look up from the floor, but he is still smiling. “I’ll mop the floors, promise! And I won’t leave any dirt behind. Maybe a few cookie crumbs…”

“Nonsense. It’s hardly a shelter.” Edge watches Puff’s smile disappear completely, something he did not even know was possible, and the voice within him that screams,  _ It’s dangerous! You don’t know what you’re getting into!  _ \- suddenly goes quiet. Instead, before he can think twice and get scared, he says aloud, “You can stay at my place.”

Puff stares at him like a cultist witnessing a deity’s arrival. In a moment, though, he dims again. “Thank you, and I am really, really meaning that! It’s very kind of you, but - I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me. And... you can.”

That’s true. This time it is not just a case of misguided paranoia. There are so many gaps and questions and things to worry about for real - but right now, Edge looks at Puff and sees not a terrifyingly unknown variable, but… a friend?

A friend in danger.

A beaten up, freezing friend in danger who is trying his damnedest to not let this danger spread.

It’s a strange feeling with more layers to it than a wedding cake, and he does not quite have the time to ponder over it. More like, he does not give himself the time. He huffs, placing his hands over his hips and standing up taller. “Ha! I’m not a wimp like some people,” ignoring the fact that Puff is slightly taller and wider both, “and I can handle a few thugs trying to get to my metaphorical nerves. So, are you coming or not? I don’t make offers like these on the daily, and I’d love to be back home before the next decade.”

Puff keeps staring at him, and Edge sees something like  _ shame  _ and something like  _ relief  _ and something like  _ gratitude  _ flicker through in his expression. It’s a bit unnerving because it feels like hearing a drunk stranger confess to something they would never tell anyone while sober. Then Puff’s impenetrable smile returns, and for a moment it looks like he is going to argue more, but then he sighs and slumps in the chair, giving up on resistance without a single more token refusal. “Oh, well… If you really don’t mind… I guess that would be nice. Yes.”

Edge blinks, having gotten ready for more negotiations. Then again, given Puff’s state, it’s hardly a surprise that he did not have the energy for that. “...Right.” He gives the puddle at Puff’s feet a dirty look -  _ tomorrow, everything will have to wait till tomorrow -  _ and coughs. “Wait for me. I have to turn off the lights again.”

Puff nods and watches him with half-closed eyesockets as Edge goes through the evening motions again. The lights flicker off, the valves and dials are checked twice. By the time he’s done, Puff is nearly asleep, nodding off and jerking his head back up every time it falls too far forward. He does not protest being led to the car, half-hanging from Edge’s shoulder, and he does not even try to shake off the snowflakes that immediately powder his skull once more.

Edge’s car is a basic little carriage, clean but unremarkable; a sign of either a modest budget or a lack of enthusiasm about vehicles. Puff is stuffed into the small backseat, and he curls there at once, dangly limbs sticking in all directions. His eyesockets slide closed. In a few moments, he’s lost to the world. 

Edge looks at him in the rear view mirror with a twitch of the same strange, layered feeling in his soul. It’s warm and freezing cold at the same time, and it almost hurts; suddenly, he almost cannot see because the anxiety, kept at bay by Puff’s presence before, crushes into him like a leaden tide. What is he going to do? What is he doing? What was he thinking? He’s driving a near stranger, someone he knows next to nothing about, to his home of all places. What if it is a ruse? What will he do then?

Puff makes a small sigh, frowning in his sleep.

With shaky fingers, Edge reaches for the key and turns it. The engine flares up with the familiar drone, and, as he adjusts the belt and the mirrors and the lights, he stuffs those thoughts into the backseat of his mind.

Puff sighs again. He stirs and almost rolls off, but manages to keep his spot by pushing his knees into the back of the driver’s seat. The street lamps cover his form in yellowish light spots. A stray late car passes by, and he shivers at the sound, but soon settles back into sleep that is probably closer to unconsciousness than to actual rest.

Edge glances at him for the last time, rests his hands on the steering wheel and tells himself, “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. 

Today, he has better things to do.

In the end, paranoia manages to turn defeat into a tie. Instead of going straight home, Edge swivers away from the route and gets to a small hostel. The few parking spots in front of it are empty. The night shift, a sleepy-looking white bunny, lets him in after some grumbling. Edge feeds them a story about helping a sibling out of a bad home situation and fortifies it with some extra tip, and the bunny agrees to overlook the lack of documents on Puff’s part and even promises to watch out for faces that need a good kiss from their wooden bat. The sentiment is sweet, and it manages to warm Edge somewhat before he starts worrying again.

Puff refuses to wake up even after an Undyne-like shake to his shoulder. Edge stares down at him for a few seconds, helpless, before huffing and grabbing him bridal-style. Puff sleeps through that as well, and then through the walk to their room and the bunny’s pitying murmurs and, eventually, the rather rough landing on the bed in their shared room. He is more or less dry by now, and he had picked up a clean spot to get snowed in, so Edge figures the damage to the bed would be near minimal. He himself, though, has higher standards. So he texts his brother.

_ I am staying at Cinnabun’s hostel. Marshall 23. I need clothes and essentials. Bandages. Disinfectant. _

It is nearly eleven o’clock, yet Serif answers right away.  _ Something’s the matter? Or just scenery change? _

Edge glances at Puff, quietly snoring away at the bottom bunk of the bed.  _ Both. We’ll talk in person. _

Serif does not reply, but he has clearly seen the message, because he appears half an hour later with Edge’s stuff packed neatly into two bags. His arrival is announced by the bunny’s war cry. Edge rolls down the stairs just in time to save Serif’s face from a wooden bat kiss by shouting, “He’s okay! I called him! He’s with me!”

The bunny groans, clearly distressed by the lack of rightful violence, but puts the bat away.

Serif winks at them just convincingly enough to hide the eye twitch. “Ey, feisty. I told you, I’m a proper gentleman.” Then he turns to Edge. He looks about the same as always, with his trademark catlike lazy squint, but Edge knows his brother well enough to see that he’s ready to pounce the second he’s told to. “So, mind showing me the premises?”

Edge does, in fact, mind, but he did promise a talk in person, so he grabs Serif by the shoulders and steers him away from the still squinting bunny. As soon as they are away from the night guard, Serif stops grinning. “So. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“So it  _ is  _ trouble.”

“No. Not immediately.”

“I’ll bend you over my knee and spank you if you don’t stop speaking in fucking riddles.”

Edge sensibly does not mention that he’d have to literally kneel for that to happen, but he does make a long and deliberate pause - just enough to make Serif’s eye twitch again. “I had some unpredictable circumstances.”

“Unpredictable my ass. You prepare for everything.” However, that’s when they turn a corner and Edge cracks the door open without thinking. Serif immediately cranes his neck to the side, peering through the crack and taking in the silhouette of a body on the bed. When his stare returns to Edge, his entire face glistens with smugness. “Oh.  _ Nice _ .”

Edge shivers, uneasily trying to cover the crack with his body. “Can you keep it to yourself?”

“What? My parental pride? Never.” Serif wipes off an imaginary tear. “They start off so small, and next thing you know they ask you to bring disinfectant to a hotel room.”

“It’s not even - Shut up!” Despite his tiredness, Edge stomps and hoists Serif up by the armpits. “If I hear a word more from you about it, I’ll make you eat it!”

“Nah, sorry - I just had my dinner. Not candlelit like some skeletons have it, but whatever makes do.”

Edge shakes his unruly brother like a stuck bottle of ketchup. 

“Okay - okay, dropped it, fuck! Tall bastard...” 

Edge smirks and gives Serif another good shake to make him rattle like a maracas. “Oh, am I? You never complained when  _ you  _ were the tall bastard, huh. Hard to get over the fact that your baby brother is twice your size?”

“Shut up, or I’ll bite off your legs.”

Serif leaves, eventually, promising to be on the lookout after he hears the story. It gets calmer without him, but it gets lonelier too. The room is small and barely furnished. It smells like cheap soap. The lights buzz in a way Edge is unfamiliar with; their soft creaking feels like something crawling up and down his bones.

His elder brother brought him what he asked, at least, plus some cold donuts and a cooling cup of something that pretends to be coffee. Edge scowls at it for more reasons than one, but at least it’s a nice gesture.

He sighs, glances at Puff who hasn’t stirred once in this entire time. He is not a medic nor a healer, and his skills don’t go far beyond treating simple scratches and dents. Trickier fractures or displacements are so far out of his league that he’d never even make it to the try outs. At least nothing is dusting, so there is that.

He first changes into another set of clothes himself, feeling better in his soft, washed-out tee and pants. Puff will just have to spend the night in his suit; there’s no way Edge is going to undress him, and the very thought leaves him flustered. Still, he does his best to clean and wrap up the obvious fracture on Puff’s temple before reluctantly unbuttoning his shirt to check his ribcage, too. It is a slow and awkward ordeal. Edge fumbles through the buttons, dreading to see Puff staring at him at any moment.

It’s bad, but not terrible. A few ribs on the left side are broken  _ (looks like more than a nasty fall; was he shoved?)  _ and the sternum bears a few dents as well  _ (either a kick or a hit with something heavy and blunt).  _ The spine looks thankfully okay; Edge cannot check for internal damage, but he figures that, if anything was wrong, it would have already manifested. There is also a curious mark on one of the ribs; a long, nearly ideal line that is widening from one end to another, as if something shaved the bone clear off in its way. That sight makes Edge frown and pause before he remembers himself and does his best to treat that as well.

It’s a sheer miracle Puff snores right through the entire process, but even so Edge’s entire skull is on fire by the time he’s finished. He carefully rebuttons Puff’s shirt and, as an afterthought, pulls his boots off; after that, he considers his caretaker job as good as done and walks off to wash his upper half in the bathroom sink before climbing into the upper bunk.

He lies there, awake. He cannot fall asleep without the familiarity of his bed, his bedsheets, his window that filters in the purple city dusk. Even the sky here seems weirdly lighter, compared to the sky he sees from his flat deep in the suburbs. He sighs and asks himself again, what is he getting into?

Will it turn out okay?

Is it even worth it?

Those are hard questions, perfectly fitted for midnight self reflection, and a part of him says yes while the rest of him screams no.

Edge runs the hand down his face. He couldn’t just leave him there… could he? Walk off and away, leave him to his own devices, with a dead phone and no car…

No, no. It is not like he could do anything else. 

It’s not like he could… call the police? Drive him to a hospital? 

It occurs to him only now that these were, in fact, viable options. He groans, squeezing his eyesockets shut. Of - fucking - course. Edge the proper citizen has no trouble with the police, no reason to stay away from medical institutions. He does not have to whip out a fake ID to stay in some shabby hideout and lick his wounds overnight. His life is much, much simpler. Easier. Too bad that, from the moment he saw Puff in that alley, the proper citizen Edge got tossed into a temporary leave.

Oh well, it is too late. Tomorrow, he’ll do everything right. He’ll do it the proper way. He will hand Puff over to someone else’s, more professional hands, and everything will be fine, and his life will return to its usual flow - just as he needs it to be. Tomorrow he’ll deal with it.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he tells himself, trying to drift off. 

Tomorrow.

It has a nice ring to it, for sure.


End file.
